


Love is in the air

by catness



Category: Panic Room: House of Secrets
Genre: F/M, Funny, Video & Computer Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 20:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3332552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catness/pseuds/catness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For 2015 "Love Is In the Air" Valentine day contest by The Panic Room Community. UserID: 100002663960414 (Cat Gray).</p>
    </blockquote>





	Love is in the air

**Author's Note:**

> For 2015 "Love Is In the Air" Valentine day contest by The Panic Room Community. UserID: 100002663960414 (Cat Gray).

The Puppeteer entered the control room and froze, squinting at the angry red glow emanating from the monitors. Was the whole mansion drenched in blood? He rushed to the console, zoomed in and groaned. It was neither an explosion nor a pipe leak nor a quarrel gone bad; something much, much worse.

It was that time of the year.

He dispatched his crew of mechanical rats to clean up all the red, pink and purple trash: silk ribbons, balloons, plushies, hearts, and the graffiti polluting every square centimetre of the walls. "The Puppeteer Is Love", "Feather + Puppy = <3", "Sweet Pup, be my Puppentine" ... does the humiliation never end? 

He pondered the enigma of human nature. Apparently being a serial killer and an obnoxious jerk makes you a chick magnet. The more you abuse them, mock them and overload them with pointless chores, the more they adore you. But all hell breaks loose on Valentine's Day.

St. Valentine, the sad sod to blame for this infernal love cult, had ended up in prison, tortured, beaten, and finally, beheaded. "Serves the bastard right", thought the Puppeteer, "too bad it was too late." The damage was done; the ancient curse unleashed year after year, blossomed into red ribbons, chocolates and butt-shaped hearts, drowning every rational person in the maelstrom of aggressive kitsch.

The back yard monitor registered an unusual activity spike. A bunch of wild-haired women, a few old enough to be his mother, wearing nothing but skimpy nighties adorned with rat and raven garlands, were dancing around the fountain. 

He turned the volume up, and recoiled from the chorus of unmelodic howls assaulting his ears. 

"Puppeteer,  
Puppy dear,  
Lovey-dovey bear,  
Love is in the air!"

"A cold shower will bring the horny harpies to their senses", he thought, and activated the sprinklers. Water spouted all over the dancers, plastering their clothes to bodies, but it only fuelled up their fervour. Mounds of glistening flesh bounced and bobbed, almost steaming. If estrogen were gasoline, bits and pieces of the mansion would be already flying all the way to the Big Ben.

But he was the Puppeteer, and he had prepared for everything. He pulled open a hidden drawer and jammed his finger into the red button labelled "Panic".

With a harsh screech, the impregnable gates, which had withstood thousands of breakout attempts, slid into the stone wall. 

The dancers still bounced around, oblivious to their sudden freedom.

He turned the microphone on. "You there, in the yard! Game over, the mansion is closed, I mean open! Everyone is free to go! Get out! Scram!"

The mob, galvanized by the sound of his voice, bolted away from the fountain; alas, not towards the road but towards the camera. They blew kisses in the air, jumped, waved and screamed. "Puppy! Come down here! Teach us a lesson! Punish your bad girls! We are your love puppets!"

"There is love for everyone", cackled the Fog from behind his back. "And so is hell. Same thing, really."


End file.
